


Comes Easy

by tanukiham



Series: Let Me Get That For You [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Happily Ever After, M/M, Multi, NOT a love triangle, Polyamory, Triad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen cares for them both, so how can he choose a side? And how could two people who love one other so fiercely be so cruel?</p><p>Still, nothing comes easy, with lovers such as these.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comes Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhat after the events of Let Me Get That For You, when the triad has settled into fragile domesticity.

The first time they fight, Cullen does not know what to do. Fenris is ice-cold, bleak and merciless as an avalanche; his hands cut the air like knives but worse are the words he spits with _such venom_ , each one rocking Carver back on his heels as though they lodge in his chest. Carver’s expression shatters, and then Cullen sees something he had never wanted to see, the rage swelling up and bursting in Carver’s throat and … Maker, the things he says then.

They scream at one another like enemies, and Cullen thinks, _No, please,_ but he is transfixed by how _bitter_ it is, how awful, and he can think of nothing to say to stop it.

“Because he’s still my _fucking_ brother! But I guess you don’t think family’s worth anything.”

“You mean to throw the sister who betrayed me in my _face_?”

“Maybe if you ever gave a shit in the Void about her she wouldn’t have!”

“Is that _so_? And all can see how well your concern for your brother is returned!”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“Left behind as you are, overlooked as you are, ignored and _unwanted_ \--”

Carver’s rage breaks; he drags in a breath that sounds like a sob, shaking his head, and then turns on his heel to storm out, slamming the door behind him.

Cullen can only stare at the heaving of Fenris’ shoulders, at his back as he hunches over the table, hands curled into fists against the wood.

 _No._ Cullen clears his throat, unsure how to proceed.

“I was _right_ ,” Fenris growls, lifting his head to glare at Cullen over his shoulder. “It was _right_ of me to do this.”

Cullen takes a breath. “You were right to act as you did. Any rumour of Garrett Hawke’s whereabouts may lead us to Anders,” and Cullen means, when he finds him, to execute Anders. It is the only sentence he can deliver. What he means to do with Garrett Hawke, however, is as yet undecided, complicated of course by, well, everything. “I think, though … to speak as you did, to _him_ , was not.”

Fenris flinches, and he lets his head hang down nearly to the surface of the table. “He will not forgive me for this. He would … if I had kept this from you, if I had gone to _him_ , then …” Fenris shakes his head, mouth firming. “The elder Hawke may by now be an abomination himself; I will not permit him to corrupt his brother. No matter how it makes Carver hate me, I cannot.”

“Nor I,” Cullen agrees, and he knows better than to approach Fenris now, better than to lay a hand on his spine, so instead he puts the corner of the table between them and leans over it to cover Fenris’ knuckles with his palm. “He does not hate you. He is angry, but that will pass. I have never known him to hold a grudge.”

“ _I_ have,” Fenris whispers, and his eyes cut up, catching the light, and he is … Cullen has never before seen him so frightened. “But. He will come back. I know he will, he--” and is that regret? “He will come back for you, if not for me.”

Cullen opens his mouth but then … is that it? He has always wondered _why_ Fenris would permit Cullen to join them, but this seems too desperate, too sad. _Does he really think Carver would simply walk out of his life like this?_ And yet … it would be so like Fenris to think so.

“He will come back for _you_ ,” Cullen says, lifting his hand to smooth the hair out of Fenris’ eyes. “I will go after him.”

Fenris stares at him, his mouth stiff with misery. “I have never gone after him.”

Cullen smiles. Of course not. “If it were _my_ pride at stake, perhaps it would be difficult for me. But, it is not and therefore.” This next part is risky, but he is bold enough now to try. He bends his head, presses a kiss to Fenris’ brow, breathing in the scent of chamomile and leather. “Will you be calm if I go? There is wine, should you wish for it.” Only half a carafe, though, not enough for Fenris to make a mess of himself. This, Cullen has learned, is prudent whenever he is upset, or depressed, or simply bored.

Fenris nods, leaning a little against him before pulling away. Cat-like, Cullen thinks, with his wanting to be near but not wanting it to be known, all pretended disdain and pride. 

Carver, though. The mabari inked into his skin is both a clue and a cliché, and Cullen has himself heard enough jibes along those lines to bristle at the thought; at the same time he is Fereldan enough to know it is _not_ an insult. Mabari are noble, loyal, fearless, with hearts like a blazing sun, but if you cut them they will reproach you and you would deserve it.

Cullen does not know where Carver would go if he were cut, but his first guess is, thankfully, the right one.

Carver is standing twilit in the yard over the remains of a training dummy, and he has smashed the thing into bits. It is … impressive. Also an annoyance, because it will take someone time and effort they cannot spare to make another from the remains.

“I should dock your pay for that, Captain.”

Carver jerks, stares at him in shock, and Cullen recalls that _Fenris has never gone after him_. Oh, Maker, how wounded his expression. But then he swallows, shifting his weight. “You’d have to take it to negatives at this stage, ser.”

It’s true, and close enough to a joke that Cullen feels the tension go out of his back, feels his jaw relax, and he offers Carver a smile. “If you have complaint, my knight, you are welcome to raise it with me any time.”

Carver’s chuckle is bleak and bitter. “Okay. That case, I wanna complain about you and Fenris sneaking around behind my back keeping _secrets_.”

It takes a moment, but then Cullen realizes what he means. “I apologise. It did not occur to me that Fenris would have done anything other than bring his news to you first. By the time it was clear he had not, it was too late.”

“Right. So I had to hear about my brother _maybe_ strung up in Cumberland from sodding _Paxley_. Maker, I should apologise to Pax,” and he groans, scrubbing fingertips over his eyes. “I pretty much chewed his _face_ off.”

Cullen blinks; Carver is not wearing gauntlets. Cullen has crossed the yard and reached for Carver’s hands before he realises he is in motion. “ _Carver_.” Both palms are blistered and torn, because of _course_ he hadn't bothered with gloves, and of _course_ he is too stubborn to ease up when he’s in pain. "You can be foolish, at times."

"That condemnation, ser, or permission?"

"Observation, only. Here," and he leads Carver to the aid station, rinses his ruined hands with clean water and opens a pot of salve. 

Carver holds still as Cullen smooths the salve over his wounds, winces as it takes effect, and waits as the tears close over. It is not as neat as it could be, but Cullen suspects that Carver will not tolerate being herded to the infirmary for further healing. The salve will be enough, overnight, and by morning there should be little more than a few marks that will fade with time.

Cullen holds on to Carver’s hands, cradling them in his palms, and there is no-one around at this time of evening, though no doubt they are being watched from a window and, in any case, someone could come past at any moment. Still. “Carver.”

“I know,” Carver mutters, though he does not pull away. “I fucking know, all right?”

“Do you? I wonder.” Cullen slides his thumbs over Carver’s damaged palms, feeling the tingle of magic in the salve, and he sighs. “Fenris should not bear the brunt of your anger. You are angry with me, also.”

“Well, _yeah_. But … I wouldn’t expect different from you.” Carver frowns, and then he does take back his hands, flexing his fingers carefully. “You’re the Knight-Commander. And Garrett … we _should_ look for him. Though, I dunno what we’ll do when we find him.”

“I do not know either,” Cullen confesses. Carver looks so wretched. It makes Cullen ache, makes him want to touch more of Carver _so badly_. But. “You were too cruel to Fenris, I think, in the delirium of your anger.”

Carver snorts. “Delirium. Yeah, maybe that’s … I mean, I guess so.” He makes a frustrated noise, scuffing a heel in the dust. “He pissed me off. And he _knew_ I’d be pissed off, and then he said all that…”

“He misspoke. And you were first to say things that, perhaps, did not need to be said.”

Carver groans, head going back, and there is something so hopeless in the twist of his shoulders and the way he huffs his sweaty fringe out of his eyes. “I _know_ , all right? I shouldn’t … but this is … and, for fuck’s sake, he could have _told_ me. I would have … I’d have done the right thing. Ser, you know that, right?”

“I have faith that you would.” Cullen lifts a hand to squeeze Carver’s shoulder. “You always do, in the end.”

“Maker, I shouldn’t have said what I said. Shit, I bet he’s angry.”

“Upset, yes. Angry? I think you took the anger with you, when you fled.”

And that earns him a glare. “Didn’t flee. I just needed to get out of there.” Cullen says nothing to that; Carver scowls, folding his arms over his chest. “So it’s all _my_ fault, then? That what you think?”

“I think you should come back upstairs, and the two of you can make it up.” He smiles, though he is not sure how it will go. “You could talk to him, without shouting or cruelty. I think he would be glad to talk to you.”

“He’ll be mad. And drunk, probably, which makes him madder, sometimes.”

“I think not. Come. Let’s find out.”

It takes some prodding, but Carver agrees to come up, protesting half the way and broodily silent the rest, but when they find Fenris curled miserably in Cullen’s bed Carver toes off his shoes and climbs up beside him without a word. Fenris leans his head on Carver's shoulder, their limbs tangling together.

Cullen hears, "Sorry," and "No, forgive me," and he backs out, closing the door on them. He takes himself to the hearth, drinks the half-glass of wine Fenris has abandoned, reads the romance he likewise abandoned on the hearthstone. It is lurid, nonsensical, except in places where Cullen feels … diverted by it. and in places--

_“You have my sword,” says the knight, saluting his liege. “To the Black City.”_

\-- he is moved, despite himself.

It grows late and perhaps, as his bed is occupied tonight, he ought to exile himself to the spare room Carver and Fenris have left vacant for months now.

But.

He goes in. They are bundled together, Carver with one of Cullen’s pillows tugged down and hugged against his chest with Fenris sprawled across his shoulders. Carver is asleep, but Fenris opens his eyes at Cullen’s candlelit intrusion, and raises a hand to beckon him down. 

Cullen strips, hanging his clothes where necessary, throwing the rest in the laundry-basket for Isaak to deal with, and blowing out the candle.

And then, naked, he joins them in the bed. Fenris reaches back, curls a hand around Cullen’s hip to fit him up, relaxing into Cullen’s chest. He says nothing, just rumbles in his throat, and tilts his head to offer the sliver of a lip to be kissed.

Cullen kisses him. It is fleeting, and not the full kiss he would welcome from either of them now, but it is something, and any kiss from Fenris is like an unexpected gem in a handful of quartz. More importantly, Fenris scuffles down, nesting between their two human bodies, leaning warm and naked-to-his-skin against him.

“Sleep well, Knight-Commander,” he mutters, and in that ‘knight-commander’ Cullen hears so much more than he would ever have expected.

When he wakes it is because Carver is moaning, quietly, in the pre-dawn. 

Cullen blinks slowly; it takes several heartbeats for him to understand what he’s seeing. 

_Thrum_. There is Carver. _Thrum_. Fenris as well. _Thrum_. Fenris has Carver face-down against the mattress with a hand flat in the middle of his back, pinned and painted by moonlight. _Thrum_. Fenris is driving into him, steady and firm, and Carver is making moan, open-mouthed and undone, so wretched, so willingly helpless beneath the thrust of Fenris’ hips. _Thrum_. Carver sees Cullen watching, crushes his mouth against his own arm to hide his noise, but reaches with the other to skitter weakly down to find Cullen’s cock.

_Thrum, thrum, thrum._

By the time Fenris is done with him and hands him off, Carver is no longer quiet. He begs, oh, how he sobs, how he clambers needily above Cullen to straddle and ride him. He leans down to be kissed, _demands_ kisses, sucks Cullen’s fingers into his mouth and wails and spills and ah, ah, Carver. And, with Fenris kissing lazily behind Cullen’s ear, ah, Fenris.

Cullen is blessed with kisses from them both -- they fight, lazily, teasingly, over his mouth, over his throat, and Cullen …

He has been in love with Carver for so long. And now, with both of them. How could this?

“Ah, I love you,” he gasps, eyes wrenched closed because he does not want to meet one pair of eyes but not the other.

“Uh,” comes a voice, and then a hot, wet mouth on his cheek, on his jaw, and another, equally hot but full of teeth against his neck. He is caught between them both and _yes_ and _yes_ , and he cannot withhold himself; he comes inside Carver but, really, they have drawn it from him together.

“Oh, my love,” he gasps, and then, weak in such strong arms as surround and shelter him, he has nothing but, “Maker bless us, how I love you.”

Fenris hums against his throat, sounding satisfied and smug. “You are _ours_ , now. You know it. Such things as we will wrest from your flesh.”

And Carver laughs. “Maker! Don’t ever stop. _Please_ , ser.”

Both of them. He should not, he’s … well, the Chant says nothing _explicitly_ against it. Perhaps he can have them both, can revel in them both, glory in them both, give himself to them _both_.

Carver settles in his arms and Fenris comes up neat and firm at his back; he is sandwiched between them, content with it and, the way their hands roam over him, how could he feel excluded or unwanted?

The worm in his heart twists … Fenris nuzzles against his ear. “We should take him hard between us, betimes,” Fenris says, low but not so low that it doesn’t make Carver chuckle. “Just take our pleasure of him -- he would like that, so we should indulge him.” He nuzzles again, this time against Cullen’s shoulder. His teeth scrape sharp and wicked against the skin of Cullen’s throat, and it shudders Cullen to his bones. 

“Mercy, Serrah. I cannot presently rise to your challenge as it deserves.”

Carver makes an exasperated sound. " _Listen_ to yourselves. How’d I get saddled with two like you?”

Fenris chuckles, and Carver yelps as he is pinched beneath the blankets. “The cheek of him. Knight-Commander, will you suffer such disrespect?”

Cullen bites his lip because he cannot otherwise stop _smiling_. “I’m certain we can devise for him some worthy penance, to train his manners.” 

He feels the huff of Carver's breath against his chest, the roll of hips against his thigh, and does not miss the hopeful note beneath his nonchalance when Carver says, "Yeah? Like to see you _try_."

Cullen laughs, tries to smother his laughter, but ... warm hands on his ribcage, warm breath against his shoulder, the welcoming rumble of Fenris' amusement at his back. This, just _this_. Maker, if he can keep it, how blessed he will be. How _loved_.

Fenris snugs him up tight against his chest; Carver kisses up under Cullen's jaw, mouth gone soft and weak in his aftermath. "All right, ser?"

And Cullen is.


End file.
